by Lee Dignam
Cyanide’s eyes wanted to pull away from Angel, to find her target, but they couldn’t. “I’m Cy,” she said.
“That’s an interesting name. Why did you take it?”
“I didn’t. It was given to me by a friend.”
“Must be a close friend.”
“Or maybe it’s just a fitting name.”
The barman set two coasters down and placed two long-necked glasses on them. The liquid in the glasses was the color of blood, but the rim was lined with sugar, and dry ice had been added to give the drink a smoky effect. Cyanide watched as Angel slipped the stem of the glass between her index and ring fingers. She then did the same, bringing the glass up to her nose and taking a quiet whiff.
It smelled like blood—coppery and thick—but the blood had been sweetened and infused with strawberry puree.
Angel brought her lips to the rim of her glass and tipped it back, taking a quick sip before placing it back on the bar. Cyanide followed suit without fear, though she wondered, having only tasted warm blood straight from the source, how this would feel going down. Surprisingly, it went down almost like a cocktail. The sugar and strawberry mixed in with the metallic texture created an almost indescribable, but not entirely unpleasant, taste—one she hadn’t thought was possible to achieve.
As she set the glass down on the bar after her second sip, she counted herself lucky she had chosen to feed before coming here. Otherwise, she may have downed the entire thing in only a couple of gulps and not bothered to savor the taste.
“Exquisite, isn’t it?” Angel asked. “I don’t know how they make these drinks. Frankly, I didn’t think blood could be manipulated and still agree with our palates. But it would seem I was wrong.”
“I guess that explains the price tag.”
Angel’s lips pulled into a deeper smile. She cocked her head to the side and threw quizzical eyes across the bar. “You’re looking for someone,” she said.
“Looking for someone?” Cyanide asked, trying to hide the sudden surprise.
“I can sense it. I don’t mean to pry, but you’re wearing anxiety on your sleeve. Who is it you’re looking for?”
Fear that looking at Angel’s eyes enabled her to peer into her mind allowed Cyanide to rip her gaze away from the doll-like woman and scan the room. Finally, she found him. The bald man. How long he had been there, sitting at that booth in the company of three other guys, she had no idea, but it didn’t matter. He was the man she had seen on the video footage, the man Daniel had described to her. She couldn’t say who he was, but she knew he was involved with the stealing of women from off the streets.
“His name is Asimov,” Angel said. “I take it you don’t know him?”
“I don’t.”
“What would someone like you want from a man like that?”
To rip his tongue out and feed it to him, Cyanide thought. She then gave Angel her eyes, wondering if she had caught that psychic broadcast. There was a smile written on her face, but not one which could be deciphered. “I’m not sure,” she said.
“Take it from me. You don’t want to be involved with that man or his ilk. They’re bad news.”
“You know him?”
“Child, I make it my business to know things, people, places.”
“Could you tell me something about him?”
“I could…”
“But?”
Angel took another sip of her drink. “Nothing in life, or death, is free.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
If there was one rule about vampire society Cyanide was sure of, it was this: you didn’t walk into a vampire gathering and accuse one, plainly, of being involved in some twisted business. Vampires didn’t like their dirty laundry being aired that way, and doing so almost guaranteed the accuser a one-way trip to ash-town. Asimov, the bald man, had been the one she had seen in the videos, and now he was here, in Heaven’s VIP lounge, enjoying the company of other vampires, drinking expensive blood-cocktails, and laughing it up with his idiot cronies.
“What is it you want to know?” Angel asked.
Cyanide came down from her thoughts and turned her eyes away from Asimov. “Is he important?” she asked.
“Important? No. I wouldn’t say so. Though maybe the word you’re looking for is influential, not important.”
“There’s a difference?”
A knowing smile swept across Angel’s delicate lips. “Of course. I’m influential, and important—at least I am to the people I associate with. Asimov is only moderately influential, and while he considers himself important, he is, at best, someone’s dog.”
“Dog… so, he works for someone?”
“Everyone works for someone, even if that someone is themselves. But in this case, yes, Asimov works for someone.”
“Could you tell me who?”
“I think if you stay here long enough, you’ll find out. But my question is, what is your interest in Asimov and his associates?”
“I’d rather not get into that.”
Angel brought her glass to her lips and took a sip, leaving a smudge of black lipstick on the rim. “How about you answer a question about yourself, then?”
“Why do you want to know about me?”
“Because, as I said, you’re interesting.”
“And I’m interesting because I’m new.”
“The simple answer, yes. Once you get to my age, you begin to tire of seeing the same faces and dealing with the same egos every single night. A new person brings a breath of fresh air to an otherwise suffocating environment.”
Cyanide risked another sip of her Crimson Kiss, reminding herself not to drink it too quickly. “I don’t think you’ll find me that interesting,” she said.
“Perhaps let me be the judge of that.”
“Look, I’d be happy to bore you with my story, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Because you’re spying on Asimov and want to be able to move as soon as he does?”
Maybe it was the alcohol, but Cyanide’s head swam just then, tilting harshly to the side like a ship being battered by a huge, rogue wave. “What?” she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard.
“I know why you’re here,” Angel said, reaching for Cyanide’s wig and twirling a lock of hair in her fingers. Cyanide didn’t resist. “It’s written on your face, child. But don’t worry, my powers of perception are quite unique, and you hold yourself well enough that I’m sure no one else has caught onto your true purpose.”
“You shouldn’t be talking like this. Not in here.”
Angel scanned the room. “Oh, because vampires have heightened hearing? This room has been built in a very special way to fool the vampire’s sense of hearing. Unless someone is standing next to us, our conversation is probably private.”
“Probably?”
“Well, unless someone wants to listen to what you’re saying, and they won’t have an easy time of it, I assure you.”
Cyanide allowed herself a chance to get a feel for the room to confirm what it was Angel was saying, and looking around, there did seem to be solid screens arranged around the place, some curved, some right angled, and the ceiling hung lower than she would have expected it to. Thinking about it now, the ambient sounds of conversation and ice clinking around in glasses, sounds so common in bars and lounges, weren’t as prevalent as she had thought.
Had her mind imagined more sound than there actually was? Whatever the case, the sudden revelation unnerved her more than it put her at ease, even if she did come away convinced what Angel was saying was true.
“Alright,” Cyanide said, “If you know I’m spying on someone, why are you being so nice to me?”
“Unlike most people, I believe in having good manners. I saw someone alone in a new place, trying her best to fit in despite the subtle cues to suggest the otherwise, and thought I would take the opportunity to make a new friend.”
“You want to be my friend?”
“It can’t hurt to have friends, can it?”
“Depends on the friend.”
“I can be a good friend. I have influence, and I like to fight for the little people.”
“That’s new.”
“True, most vampires live for themselves, but I believe in everyone having a chance. You don’t know someone’s full potential until they’re allowed to express it. In this world, expressing yourself is difficult unless you don’t care whose feet you step on.”
“I couldn’t care less about people’s feet. I didn’t get to where I am by being polite to other vampires just because they’re vampires.”
“Interesting. Were you always this way?”
“I guess.”
“And the one who made you, they didn’t teach you otherwise?”
Cyanide took another sip of her drink, enjoying the taste of the sugar as it swirled around her tongue. “I never met the one who made me.”
Angel’s eyes softened and she tilted her head to the side. “Child, I’m so sorry. Why did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I guess they didn’t want me, or maybe I was just an accident. Maybe they thought if they left me out on the street I would just die as soon as the sun came up.”
“But you didn’t, no doubt thanks to your natural instinct of self-preservation.”
Not wanting to tell Angel that it was Neo who picked her up off the street only hours after she had been turned, Cyanide simply nodded and hid her lips behind another taste of Crimson Kiss. Angel didn’t need to know that particular detail, that secret. Thinking about it, about how she was discarded in an alley like an unwanted dumpster-baby, stung her heart even now, but she didn’t let it show on her face.
Movement drew her eyes to Asimov again, only this time she noticed something different about the table. The mood had changed. The men who had been jolly and rowdy a minute ago all had stern, serious looks about them now. Another man in a tailored, blood-red suit had joined them. His hands were planted palms down on the table he was leaning over, and his face was twisted into a scowl. His hair was short and spiked in a young, youthful way, he had stubble on his chin, but his skin was all too pale, and when he spoke, he showed way too many teeth—including the pointed canines.
“Who’s that?” Cyanide asked.
“If I answer, will you tell me about yourself?”
“Yes, fine; who is that?”
“That,” Angel said, “Is Mister Red. I don’t know his real name. I’m not sure anyone does. But if you remember, I told you earlier you would get a glimpse at Asimov’s boss… that would be him.”
So, he calls the shots. Cyanide set her drink down and let her hand clench into a fist. She was just about ready to leap and tear his spine out through his suit, but this place was full of vampires, and she knew she wouldn’t get more than three feet across the room before someone stopped her with a swift kick to the teeth—or worse.
“If you’d excuse me,” she said, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” Angel said, “I’ll watch your drink.”
Cyanide headed quickly into the women’s bathroom, which existed solely to be used by the indoctrinated humans in the lounge or by the vampires who wanted to feed on said humans. Once inside, she checked the stalls one by one, pushing open the doors without hesitation. When the coast was clear, she stepped into a stall, shut the door, pulled her phone out of her purse, and dialed Neo’s number.
It rang once. “What is it?” Neo asked.
“I’ve found him,” Cyanide said, her voice hushed and covered with her hand. “He’s got friends. His boss is with him, too.”
“His boss?”
“I don’t have time to explain. I don’t think his boss is going to stick around for very long.”
“Okay, stay put and we’ll—”
“We don’t have time for that. I’m going to talk to him.”
“You can’t do that. Cyanide, you can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what these people are capable of. You need backup. Stay put, and I’ll head inside.”
“It’ll take you at least ten minutes to get in here. He could be gone by then.” She crossed toward the door in a hurry, pushing it open slightly and scanning for Mister Red. He was still here. “I need to go,” she said. “I’m in the VIP lounge. Flash your fangs—they’ll let you in.”
“Cy—”
She hung up before Neo could finish. He was probably right about Asimov and Mister Red. She had no idea what they could do, what powers they had, or what friends they had. But she had to act. She couldn’t just let them leave—couldn’t risk it. Asimov seemed to have been having a good time until Mister Red showed up, which led her to believe he had done something wrong; maybe it was along the lines of losing a truck full of abducted women.
If they were arguing, now was the best time to act.
She gave herself one good look in the mirror, quickly adjusting her wig, and then stepped back into the VIP lounge. On her way to the bar she noticed Mister Red no longer perched over Asimov’s table like an angry priest delivering a doomsday warning to a crowd of nonbelievers and sinners. He looked like he was getting ready to leave.
Cyanide changed directions and headed straight for Asimov’s booth, heels pounding the carpet, fake hair floating. Asimov didn’t seem to know what to make of her when he first saw her, but also didn’t want to interrupt his boss while he was being given a lecture on keeping his phone turned on unless he wanted to have it shoved down his throat.
Finally, Mister Red registered Cyanide’s presence, and he turned to her. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice smooth but firm, “What do you want?”
“I’m no one,” she said, “Just someone who spotted you across the bar and recognized an opportunity to make a positive connection.”
His eyes roamed up and down along the shape of her body, trying to imagine what it was she looked like beneath the form-fitting dress. She had seen that look on men before, and she hated it. “Connection?” he asked, “What kind of connection.”
“Well, judging by the suit and the watch, I’d say you’re a man who knows his way around a successful business. Am I wrong?”
“No. You’re entirely right, in fact.”
“What is it you do?”
Mister Red’s eyes narrowed as the beginnings of suspicion began to settle in. “Do you mean to tell me you approached without having any idea who I am or what it is I do? That’s no way to make a good first impression.”
“Really? Because I think it shows initiative, but if that isn’t the kind of thing you’re interested in…”
“I apologize,” he said, taking the bait, “I’m just on a tight appointment schedule and my mind is elsewhere.”
“It’s fine. I’m like that too.”
He glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to be going… but maybe you could accompany me? We could talk on the way out.”
This was playing out almost too easily. Cyanide had never acted before in her life, but the words were flowing through her as if she were being fed lines from Rita Hayworth herself. “I’d be glad to talk with you,” she said, giving him her arm.
Mister Red shot Asimov a stern look which carried with it all the weight of a wrecking ball. We’ll finish this later, it said, and Asimov and the other guys at the table understood exactly what that meant.
The vampire in the red suit led Cyanide out of Heaven’s VIP lounge. When she chanced a peep at the bar on the way out, Angel was gone. Realizing this made Cyanide suddenly nervous. Her confidence cracked so loudly she might have heard it happen. But it wasn’t just that. Angel had told her nothing in life, or death, was free, and whatever Cyanide was supposed to pay her for her time, she hadn’t paid it yet. Owing people wasn’t exactly something she liked.
When the doors to the lounge opened, she gave Mister Red her entire attention, focusing on keeping her poise and maintaining the persona she had crafted out of thin air.
“I think I recognize you,” he sa
id.
“Really?” she asked. “I don’t see how.”
“It’s possible I’ve seen you around at court. How long have you been on the scene?”
“On the… oh, a couple of years, but I’m not a big contender in the politics of the damned. I like to do my own thing and not stick my nose in other people’s business. It’s a good way to get it hacked off.”
“Smart advice, but not practical,” he said as they walked, arm in arm, down the stairs. To the left, over the banister, a sea of bumping and grinding bodies writhed to the beat of the music.
“Oh?” she asked.
“You must know by now that while vampires are solitary hunters, we also need the support of others of our kind in order to succeed. Humans can’t be relied on to help us further our interests. They’re either cattle, or currency; useful for little more than sustenance or servitude.”
“Currency? How do you mean?”
“Humans can be bought and sold. Some humans are more valuable than others.”
“You’re talking about slavery.”
“No, I’m talking about business.”
“But I thought the court’s laws forbade the enslavement of humans.”
Mister Red cracked a smirk. “I think you’ll find, once you reach my level of influence, the court’s laws start to lose their grip on your nightly activities.”
“Interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t. A young lady like yourself could get very far ahead if she learned how to circumvent the restrictions the court’s laws place on our kind.”
“If I come across any in my line of work, I’ll be sure to ask you how to skip them.”
“And I’d be happy to oblige…” he said, trailing off. They had stopped in the stairwell, and Mister Red was looking at her now as if he were taking another shot at placing her. Then his curious face turned hard and serious when he spotted the person standing at the foot of the stairwell on the third floor.
Neo.
The two men stared at each other like cowboys about to have a shoot-out at high noon. Other vampires and their guests were also still, no one wanting to set foot on the staircase for fear of being caught in the near-visible electric charge passing between them. Did they know each other? They were staring at each other the way old rivals would, each saying more with a glare than was possible with words.
